The Violin
by Perfume
Summary: Once lost, now found, a violin from Christine's past has made it's way to Erik. A small moment, Leroux inspired.


She was not in her room, the little room furnished ever so much to her liking. He had spent far too many days behind the mirror, staring at the objects on her dressing room table (far too many nights inspecting each and every one of them), finding that his hands went to her brush often. His fingers would brush across the bristles, picturing them combing through her strands. These were the little things he enjoyed about Christine. The little things he hoped to give her in the comfort of his home.

As he moved quietly and quickly down the hall, entering the parlor, he came across her seated on the divan. She was wearing one of his dressing gowns he had purchased for her. Green was her color, complemented her hair. Again, he could not help but to gaze at her long, golden hair, curling down her back. Upon his entrance, she sat up a little straighter (he often chided her on her posture). Her eyes locked with his. He did not hesitate upon her noticing him, he moved past her to his music. He did not want her to know that he was searching for her, no.

Picking up his pen, he looked over the notes he had completed hours earlier, a simple composition. His fingers counted and moved on imaginary scales in the air. _No, not that…_ Scribbling out the previous work, he added something new instead. His eyes darted over to his right, once, then twice, knowing that she was looking at him. She could not see his eyes moving, but could feel hers pressed into his back like invisible hands, begging for him to pay attention to her.

The minutes dragged on and still she did not speak a word. He stopped writing, letting the ink blot. "You have been watching me since the moment I entered the room," he began slowly, "and all though you are a comfort, you are troubling me."

"I'm sorry," she replied instantly, "I didn't mean to gaze so long."

"Is it my mask?" He asked, his fingers clenching around the pen. "Does Erik's mask make you curious?"

"No, no! It isn't your mask, Erik, it's…" her voice trailed off. Had he frightened her? He quickly looked over his shoulder. She was staring at something on the far wall. His eyes went over to the violin case that was on the shelf. "Do you want me to play you something, is that it?" He moved his eyes back to her.

She back at him and nodded once. He set down the pen and got up from his seat moving over to the wall. He had not played his violin since the night that he had played it at her father's tomb. He unlatched the case and withdrew the instrument. Turning to her, he made his way back to her till he was standing directly in front of her. She looked at him with anticipation and was surprised when held the instrument out to her. "I don't play," was her words as he pressed the violin into her hands. He smiled behind his mask.

"How long has it been, Christine?" He asked her curiously. "Was your father's violin like my own?"

"Yes," she said, looking over his violin, "quite like yours." She turned it over and inspected it from every angle.

"That is because _it is_ your father's," he said proudly. He had watched her face change into so many different expressions in the past few minutes. Now, her eyes were wide in shock and she held the violin a bit closer to her frame.

"… You," she whispered, her words failing her. She gazed back down at the violin, inspecting it much more closely. "You cannot be serious, Erik!"

"Erik is quite serious when he means to be," he said, "to joke about something so precious, so… intimate to your thoughts, it would be cruel." He fell back into the chair across from her, his fingers coming together under his chin. "No, I did not know your father, not in the slightest… except from what you have told me. He seemed like a decent fellow. Far more decent than any that I have come across in my time."

She looked up at him, not knowing what to say. He was certain a hundred things were coming to her mind; they were just only hanging there on her sweet lips. He continued: "Sometimes, Erik travels. Very rarely, and when he does, he likes going into little shops. Overlooked by the everyday eye – things that people do not want—and full of interesting things. On such a visit to one of the shops, I had come across a violin." He waved his hand in a dismissive and continual manner. "You do not need to know the story of how Erik purchased the violin, but you are curious as to if it _is_ your father's." He leaned forward in his seat, his bridged beneath his chin and his elbows on his knees, he was giddy now. "Tell me, how did the violin leave your possession?"

She had been quiet and so stunned by the details that were coming forth, it was almost as if she had forgotten how to speak. She licked her lips and ran her fingers over the wood of the base. "When my father passed, I could only afford to take so little when I left Brittany. I did not want to part with it," she murmured, "I wanted to keep it, forever. I did not know how to play; my father only taught me so much. And…" she hesitated, looking up at him and then continuing on, "I was foolish not to take interest in his lessons. I sold the violin to a little store owner who gave me thirty five francs. It was the last I saw of it…"

"Until now," he murmured, reaching out and slowly taking the violin from her hands. When he did, she burst into tears. He was stunned, shocked, frightened. He did not know how to comfort her. To touch her would be a sin. To even say words of comfort, it would not feel right. His hands clenched around the neck of the delicate piece, his back straightened.

"Oh stop, stop Christine!" He wailed, bringing his hand to his masked face, raking his fingers over the cloth. "My story has disturbed you. It is not what I intended." He moved away from her, returning to the case. He heard her intake of breath, and she cried: "Erik, no! Please don't put it away!"

"Christine you are clearly upset," he gestured to the violin, "let me tuck it away… Erik cannot have Christine shed tears, no." He shook his head, placing the violin in the case. Suddenly her fingers fell upon his hand, keeping him from closing the lid. He was motionless. The amount of times she touched him, far and few, was nothing like now. It was strange, feeling her skin upon his bony hand. He wanted to recoil, like a snake, drag the cuff of his sleeve over the hideousness of his hand.

"It is only the memories," she whispered, "seeing something I thought I lost forever, it has brought tears to my eyes. It is indeed my father's violin. I should have known… that night, you followed me to Peros, you told me that you would play upon it." She pulled the violin out from the case, pressed it to him, her eyes pleading. "Play upon it again, please?"

His fingers curled around the instrument. "Are you certain?"

"It shall be as if my father and I are united once more," was her reply. She moved back to her seat upon the divan. He continued to remain there for a few moments before his right hand picked up the violin bow. Returning to his chair, he began to inspect the knobs and pluck the strings. He was silly to think that it would have changed since he last used it; he always made sure it was in tune. But the act relaxed Christine; he saw her shoulders press into the tapestry.

What to play? What could soothe her? He was afraid to play her something she remembered on account of it triggering emotions. He placed the violin beneath his chin, straightening his back. Resting the bow on the strings, he glanced at her once, quickly, before plunging into a tune. He had chosen Bach's Violin Sonata No. 1. He and Bach seemed to be paired quite often every time he picked up the violin. The work of the composer was soothing, thoughtful, and delicately crafted; to not play him would be an insult to the instrument.

The music of Bach seemed to have a similar effect on Christine. Of course, spending her time in the opera introduced her more appropriate pieces instead of those she must have grown up on (folk music). When he began to play, her eyes closed. Her breathing was slow, paced, as if she was allowing the music to course through her. He found himself smiling behind the fabric of his mask. Once again, they were joined by music. Even if their voices were not in harmony, their minds were in that moment.

As the sonata drew to a close, Erik had glanced back up at his entranced beauty. She had fallen asleep. Soundlessly he stood and returned the violin back to its case. He wondered if he should let her rest there for the night or if he should wake her. Clenching his fists, he damned her unconscious state. It left him in a predicament, one that he hoped to avoid while she was at stay in his home.

Cautiously he strode to her, gazing at her. Even looking at her while she was sleeping felt wrong. He closed his eyes, his breathing rapid. He had to calm himself… Slowly, he bent down and curled his hands around her body. Her eyes opened.

"I must have fallen asleep," she murmured, her eyes fluttered once. He quickly removed his hands from under her, turned his back on her. He felt ashamed, caught in his innocence.

"Yes," he said, finding his voice. "Perhaps a divan is not where Christine should spend the night. Your neck, it may stiffen! It would be unfortunate to have you uncomfortable while you practice tomorrow."

She rose and moved past him, obediently. He watched her as she moved towards the hall. Before she disappeared from his gaze, she looked over to him and smiled a little. "Good night." He nodded and she continued on to his room. When he heard the faint sound of her door closing, he flung himself onto the chair, clenching the fabric and burying his face into the upholstery. _Foolish, foolish Erik!_

What did she think of him, that he was lecherous and greedy of a touch? Is that why her words were so little? But she wished him good night! Was all well? He closed his eyes, trying to get his breathing down to normal. Why must she do this to him? Damn her innocence!

But oh, he had to relish in her peacefulness, her calm serenity as she listened to him play. He had to, at least, take pride that he dried her tears. He looked over to the violin, the violin that belonged to her father… She did not implore him any further on the story of how it came into his possession, and how it was _indeed_ her father's.

He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. It was worn from the amount of times he had opened it, refolded it, clutched it, and carried it in his possession. It was a miracle that the paper had not fallen apart. He got out of his chair, retreating into his favorite corner of the room—he could easily look at the room and the hall that she retreated down.

He did not want to be caught with this. Especially since he had used it in his benefit to gain her trust during the times he was behind the mirror. The letter he held in his hands was his treasure, the one tangible thing he had stolen from Christine (besides from robbing her memories and childhood dreams). He did not have to open the letter to know what it contained. He had memorized it by heart now. Yet, he liked looking at the script of the man who wrote it, the man who the violin once belonged to.

_A violin is an instrument, my child.  
Like all things, it breaks when it is not cared for.  
May it remind you, that your voice is an instrument too!  
Together, they will bring forth the melodies.  
If only you care for them._

_Charles Daae _

He liked to think that her father was speaking about him. Perhaps not directly, but as the one who would keep his daughter's voice intact… enhance it, even. He folded up the letter and pressed it back into his jacket. He closed his eyes.

He was never one for entering a store in the daylight, his mask was a hindrance. He preferred shopping in the comfort of night. This was how he was able to procure things. He did not exactly steal them. He made sure the items were paid for, but he took them without the watchful eyes of the owners.

It was this store that attracted his attention. He picked the lock, stole into the shadows and began browsing the items. He found not much that night and was about to leave empty handed and then he saw it: High on a shelf, tucked away from the usual glance of customers was the violin. There were other violins, other musical instruments that looked as if they were in far better condition… but this one was different. Even when he held it in his hands, he could feel the wood texture: slightly worn, but still retaining the gloss and sheen of a well kept violin. He was confused as to why it was here. Usually violins that were in such a condition were still owned by their respectable owners. This violin was well loved, yet its beauty was unseen by all.

He had to have it. So he purchased it. He took it home, and inspected it within the light. Indeed, it was a well loved violin, it was cared for attentively. The owner must have been someone who played often, but was devoted and possibly even accomplished. He continued to inspect it, making sure he had nothing to fix or refurbish. When he was looking through one of the f-holes, he caught sight of a piece of paper. Gently, he was able to get it without pushing it further into the violin. That was how the letter came to be in his hands.

Of course at the time, Christine knew nothing of his existence. He was a name, a _ghost_, and nothing more. The more he studied her, followed her, the more he wanted to be a part of her life… her world. Upon a visit to her father's grave in Peros, that was when it all began.


End file.
